


For now we see in a mirror, darkly

by sElkieNight60



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, DCU, DCU (Comics), Red Robin (Comics), Teen Titans (Comics), Under the Red Hood
Genre: Damian Wayne - Freeform, Dick Grayson - Freeform, Dinah Lance - Freeform, Gen, Hyperventilation, PTSD, Panic Attacks, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake is Red Robin, Tim Drake-centric, emotionally hurt tim drake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-12
Updated: 2020-04-16
Packaged: 2021-03-01 18:35:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23611660
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sElkieNight60/pseuds/sElkieNight60
Summary: It was stupid, really. That Jason still had this much sway over him. That Bruce was there to see it. That Tim still couldn't get over it.Tim has a panic attack. Bruce makes him see a therapist.
Relationships: Tim Drake & Bruce Wayne, Tim Drake & batfamily
Comments: 87
Kudos: 596
Collections: Tim Drake and Red Robin Stories





	1. Chapter 1

It was stupid, really. That Jason still had this much sway over him. That Bruce was there to see it. That Tim still couldn't get over it.

And, for once, life was― _dare he say it_ ―peaceful. Things were actually going okay, for a change. A muted truce had fallen over the family. There was no infighting, no unspoken bitterness. Wounds had been flushed out, cleaned. They'd poured antiseptic over their bleeding cuts and bandaged them with late nights of quiet talking and silent roof-top patrols.

_Of course_ Tim would be the one to fuck it up.

They were catching their breath on the roof of some antiques store―Red Hood, Batman and Red Robin. Nightwing, Batgirl and Robin were ten minutes out, they were waiting for them to arrive. The dawn would be breaking soon.

Three little words were all it took. Three little words; like a freight-train heading for him at full speed. The night had been rough, but it seemed the old adage still rang true: the night was darkest before the dawn.

Maybe it was simply because Tim hadn't been expecting it.

He was relaxed, sprawled out across the roof. Across from him, legs hanging off the building, Jason sat with his helmet off and a smoke in his hand. It was unlit. Tim knew he was still trying to quit. Bruce, half-perched on the rooftop tank, looked as though he was wide awake, but both Tim and Jason knew the man was definitely dozing behind the mask.

“Hey,” said Jason, scooting over and swinging one leg over to kick Tim's shin lightly. “Thanks for the save tonight.”

It was said quietly, with some small amount of hesitance. As though he thought Tim would rebuke it. Red Hood had nearly lost an arm tonight, it had just been fortunate Tim's bow-staff had been in the right place at the right time to prevent the trafficker's machete from slicing straight through the body armour.

He grunted by way of response, then added, “No biggie.” Like it wasn't. An embarrassed smile tried to worm its way onto his face and it was more work than he anticipated to keep his expression carefully neutral.

Bruce cracked open an eye, but said nothing, maintaining his arms crossed in front of his chest and his stoic façade.

Tim expected Jason to leave it at that. The guy was worse with emotions than Bruce some days. But he didn't. Instead, he swung both legs back onto the roof and nudged Tim with his foot again.

“I'm serious, kid,” he said with the slightest amount _more_ behind his tone. “You need to give yourself more credit. This was supposed to be my op, but _you_ saved those girls tonight, not me. Plus, you know, my arm.”

Bruce was paying attention now, not bothering to hide it anymore.

Tim just wanted to drop the subject.

“It's cool,” he said, pegging Jason with _A Look_ in an attempt to do just that. “But, uh, thanks.”

Seemingly enough for Jason, he swung his legs back over the side of the roof, pulled out his entire pack of cigarettes and stuffed the one between his fingers back in, looking pleased.

When he spoke again, Tim wondered where this suddenly amiable and talkative Jason had come from. A veritable change from the spit-fire and venom he had once been.

“Some days I wonder if we've ever really made a difference in Gotham,” he said, staring out at the cityscape. “But then, nights like tonight happen and I remind myself that I have to take the wins.”

“Yeah…” replied Tim, nodding, but not really adding anything else of any value. Jason looked lost in his own thoughts, but it was equal parts thoughtful and equal parts peaceful.

“Maybe it _is_ possible to make a difference here, in Gotham.”

Tim caught the inordinately pleased look that the unmasked part of Bruce's face was developing slowly, like a polaroid, but it was the last thing he was truly consciously aware of. Tim's world shifted, the words still ringing in his ears when he landed on his feet again.

“― _the talent to make a difference in Gotham,”_ Jason of another time was saying, supplanting the here and now and _oh god, that was a batarang heading for his face._

_Tim leapt to his feet. His shoulder was still sore from where Jason had kicked him into a wall. It was all he could do to deflect the weapon before trying and just barely managing to avoid his own staff to the face._

“Tim,” Bruce was saying, _but Bruce wasn't here._ Bruce sounded urgent, worried. _Of course he'd be worried, Jason was back. Jason was alive._ “Tim, _breathe―”_

_Tim's own bow-staff caught him in the jaw with a sickening sounding crack. It churned his own stomach._

“ _Let's find out how tough you really are,” Jason was speaking again, hovering over him as he knelt on the ground, vision swimming_ ―Jason appeared before him, two hands raised, the way he did when he was talking to the street girls. His mouth was moving, he was saying something. Tim just couldn't tell _what._

_Blood was trickling down from his forehead, slipping underneath the mask, obscuring his vision. Jason was saying something, his mouth was moving, but Tim couldn't quite tell what. He coughed. Blood splattered onto the ground between the middle of his planted palms. Jason still had Tim's bow-staff between his hands. He was wielding it like a bat―like a crowbar._

“Tim follow my breathing, okay?” Bruce sounded like he was right by Tim's ear. At the same time he was leagues away, yelling over oceans of white noise. One of Tim's hands rested on Bruce's chest, he was breathing slowly. Tim… wasn't.

_Tim had to get the upper hand over Jason. If he didn't, he would be dead. Somehow he managed to get a knee to Jason's chin, stealing back his bow-staff at the same time. It didn't last. Whatever the older Robin threw at his face was powerful and had him breathing fast. It was like he couldn't get enough oxygen in. The gas was too much._

He couldn't breathe. He couldn't breathe. Jason was right there, couldn't Bruce see that. Tim was going to die. How could Bruce just sit there and expect him to breathe when Jason was right there. Did he expect to trade Tim's life for Jason's? Was that it? It had always been painfully obvious that that was what Bruce would choose if he could. If he could have Jason back, Tim could go, that was what Bruce believed, what he wanted. What need did he have for an unskilled, unspecial―

“ _You do realise the whole idea of training a teenager to fight against something he'll never eradicate is a mistake,” Jason said, and of course Tim knew that. But the city needed Batman and Batman needed a Robin and Jason was_ gone _and Dick wasn't going to help and nobody else would step up to do it. Tim had nothing to lose. His parents didn't want him. Jason didn't know that, but he doubted they'd notice his absence from their lives. Tim was expendable. If he could trade his life for Jason's, didn't the boy know he would? If he could give Bruce back the Jason he knew and loved, Tim would sacrifice himself knowing he had done the right thing._

“Fuck, Bruce, he's still hyperventilating,” Jason all but yelled, running a hand through his hair. It was a weird thing to notice, but there was a little furrow between his brow that made him look more worried than angry. “He needs a paper bag or something!”

_Tim went flying into the wall. All the wind was knocked out of him. Jason's foot connected with his skull. Tim was sure he was still saying something, but when Jason's fist connected with his nose, this time there was a lot more blood and a ringing in his ear. His head hit the ground with a resounding smack._

_It was over. Tim closed his eyes. There would be no resistance on his part. Jason would end him. Hopefully one day Bruce and Jason would see eye to eye again. Maybe Tim would even get his own statue in this very hall, but he doubted it. This wasn't dying for the cause, this wasn't a heroes death. This wasn't the death he wanted, but it was probably the one he deserved. He wondered who would mourn him._

Arms around him moved. Batman was holding him up. There was a gauntlet clad hand in his hair, running through it, brushing fallen bangs out of his eyes. Tim hardly felt it. Everything was too surreal. It was a dream or an alternate universe, he was watching through a mirror, darkly. His limbs felt strange. His fingers cold and frozen. He couldn't even feel his toes. There were black dots dancing around the edges of his vision. It didn't seem to matter how hard he blinked them away, they remained when he opened his eyes again and again.

“That's it,” Bruce was still saying, strangely calm, oddly patient. Batman didn't do patience. Not with Tim. Never with Tim.

_He'd wanted Tim to be better. He couldn't have another kid dying on him. And Tim had tried. God, he'd tried. But this was pathetic. It was clear he was outmatched. Jason was much stronger than him. Smarter, more agile, harder hitting. No wonder Bruce wanted Jason back and not just the off-brand replacement._

“Keep breathing, Tim,” Bruce continued. “In for eight, out for eight. Listen to my voice okay. Jay and I are going to breathe with you, alright. Slowly, ready? One, two, three, four, five―”

“You're doing great, Timmy,” Jason spoke, nodding.

“Out. One, two, three four, five―”

“Hey guys!” That was Dick, Tim was sure of it. It was too bright, too cheerful to be anyone else.

_Why couldn't Dick have come back as Robin? Jason wouldn't kill Dick like this._

“What's wrong with Tim?”

Everything. Everything was wrong with him. He couldn't do anything right. _He was going to die in this godforsaken basement surrounded by heroes who'd given their lives for the cause and what was Tim going to contribute. Nothing. He'd poured out his heart and soul, given everything of himself and then some more. Still, it was enough. It would never be enough._

“Panic attack,” Bruce said grimly, running his hand through Tim's hair once again. “I think he's still dissociating.”

Dick sat down next to Jason and Tim was sure Damian was nearby, _ready to join Jason's crusade of offing him as soon as he was able to get the chance. Nobody treated Damian like a replacement. Tim had never beaten Damian half to death. No, of course not. That was what Tim was around for. More than just the proverbial punching bag, he was the literal one. And where had Bruce been?_

Bruce was holding him tightly against his chest.

_Damian wouldn't try anything while Bruce was here, he didn't think._

“Tim, you're safe. You're here with your family.”

_His family wasn't safe. His family was the opposite of safe. Nothing was safe, no one was safe. Tim had learned that the very first night he'd tailed Batman and Robin through the streets of Gotham. No one was looking out for Timothy Drake, only himself._

“You're okay, I promise. You're okay.”

The rumbling of Bruce's deep voice loosened something in his chest. Like a rock, a pebble, falling from a great height. It caused a landslide and finally, _finally_ , he was through the narrow tunnel. Slowly, things started to filter back in.

Dick was the first to give him a smile and Jason beside him looked overwhelmingly relieved.

“Back with us?” he said, shuffling a little closer. Tim blinked, but it was still the Jason of now.

“Yeah,” he replied eventually, more as a sigh. “I… I'm good.”

Dick snorted. “You're _good?_ After that? Whatever _that_ was… I don't think so, Timbit.”

Tim looked over at Robin and Batgirl, standing off to the wayside. Damian was uncharacteristically quiet. Maybe he'd spooked the kid, but Tim doubted it. He'd seen worse than just Tim having a panic attack.

Shaking off Bruce, he righted himself. The hands moved away immediately, the frown on Bruce's face did not.

Had Tim been alone he would have simply moved on with it, pretend it never happened. He would sweep it under the rug along with the hundred other things wrong with him. But it looked as though Batman was expecting something. Tim had to wrack his brain to figure out what.

“Sorry,” he decided on eventually. “Won't happen again.” It would, but they didn't need to know that. “I'm handling it.” He wasn't. “I promise this won't affect the mission.”

Bruce's brow only furrowed more. Where had Tim stumbled.

There was a moment of baited silence. Then, “This has happened before?”

_Ah, that was where he had screwed up._

“It really is fine, Batman,” he tried for a reassuring smile, but it might've been too wobbly around the edges to pass. “I've got this under control, I swear.”

Jason snorted, unhelpfully. “That did not _look '_ under control.'”

Bruce nodded before Tim could intercede. Adding, “I'm inclined to agree. Why didn't you tell me this had happened before?”

_Well, there was a multitude of reasons. A laundry list a mile long, but if they got into that now they'd still be on this roof-top by daybreak._

“It wasn't important,” he said, then at the look Bruce gave him, amended, “there were more important things… I can handle this on my own.”

Bruce proceeded to pin him with a second look, this one more disbelieving in nature.

“That hardly seems true,” he said, to which Tim had no rebuke. What exactly was Bruce going to do about it anyway. Nothing, because he would be expected to manage this on his own as always. Tim could do that.

Batman took a deep breath, looking just the tiniest bit shaken under the cowl if Tim was reading it right, but it was Bruce's hand that came down on his shoulder. Soft and parental and in that way Bruce only behaved when he was telling Tim he should jump and ask how high.

“I think you need to see a therapist,” Bruce said. And Tim baulked.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Stickin' to: A Plan.
> 
> Enjoy!

Dinah was watching him pick invisible fluff off his immaculate pants in silence. It didn't matter what she claimed, Tim knew this entire session would make it back to Bruce somehow. The man didn't need any more reasons to believe Tim wasn't cutting it. He had enough already.

“So,” she began, softly, warmly. Like she really _cared_. She didn't. Tim knew that. This was a sham and a pretense only. “Batman says you've been having panic attacks?”

Tim picked at the loose threads. They came away easily. He admitted the truth begrudgingly.

“Yeah.”

“Have you been having them for a while?”

Black Canary's smile was polite, pleasing. The sight of it made Tim feel useless.

“No.”

Dinah didn't look ruffled, but―

“You don't need to lie to me, Tim,” she replied gently, sounding faintly sympathetic, maybe even pitying. Cassie's voice rang out in his memory as Dinah's face swam before him, the two blondes merging into one.

“ _Tim,” she shouted. “I'm talking to you.” Conner stood behind her, but Tim was already working on the window._

“ _What are you doing?” The other boy asked, looking perplexed as Tim pulled a penknife laser out of his utility belt._

“ _Getting us out of here,” he replied._

_Wonder Girl looked shocked, but she wasn't quite stunned into silence. “…wait a second. You lied to Starfire?” Her face turned aghast, as though she couldn't believe Tim could ever be that sneaky. She walked in the light. She and Conner both. But Tim was a Bat. Shadows and half-truths were where he lived._

“ _I lie to Batman,” was all he said in return._

Was that what people did now? Pity him? He didn't need it.

“Batman believes you've been having them for a while,” Dinah elaborated, gesturing with little circles in the air using her ballpoint pen. Perhaps it wasn't worth keeping up the lie, there would be others more necessary to maintain. “He claims you dissociated on patrol the other day as well. Can you tell me about that?”

Tim bit the inside of his lower lip, not quite hard enough to draw blood, but almost. It wouldn't do to show signs of hurting in front of her. He needed to be a _Drake_ here. Someone without emotions. Janet hadn't been a particularly kind mother, but thinking back on it, she'd been the first to train him. A mentor before all others.

“It was a combination of things,” he explained formally, sitting upright and straight, as though he was discussing the weather with Ms. Belvedere at a gala party. “Just the wrong thing at the wrong time, you understand.”

She nodded as though she did understand, but she'd taken on a thoughtful expression, the undercurrent of which Tim was having trouble reading.

“I _do have_ the panic attacks under control,” he lied smoothly. “And I did not dissociate,” another lie, “I simply was having some trouble getting my breathing under control. Too much oxygen to the brain causes tunnel vision.”

She did not look as though she really believed him. Tim plastered on a reassuring smile and prayed he would be able to bounce between a soothing or facetious façade for the full hour.

She tapped the clipboard in her left hand with her pen in her right all of once as she struggled to repress a sigh and maintain her professionalism. To anyone else, it might have gone unnoticed. But Tim wasn't anyone else. After everything he'd been through, if he hadn't learned to pick up on an enemy's intention before they struck, he would most certainly be dead by now.

“I think you know as well as I that that isn't true, Tim,” she said, sounding sad. “I need you to be honest with me here, kid. I can't help you if you aren't open with me.”

“ _I didn't ask to come here,”_ Tim snapped, recoiling immediately from the gaffe. Oh no, that was a problem. He'd let her see through his front. Now she knew. Now Batman would know. Dinah didn't look shocked in the slightest, but Tim didn't know if that's because she was expecting it or because she was well-trained.

Tim straightened again and righted his face, smoothing it out into something apologetic. “I'm sorry,” he said, doing an excellent job of sounding sincere, he thought. “I should not have shouted at you.”

She waved a hand at him, brushing it off. “That's alright,” she said, smile for the traumatised and for children and for traumatised children returning. “We can all be jerks sometimes. I promise it's okay if you lose your cool. I'm not a super-powered therapist for nothing.”

 _We can all be jerks sometimes_ ―Tim's arms came up around his midriff, clutching at his stomach in a way that he hoped made him look just sad and not sick to his stomach as the unwanted reminder rose unbidden.

“ _Get a grip, will you?” That was his voice, laboured. The sound of it echoed all around the Batcave._

_Bruce had said having Damian here would change nothing, but already things felt off and different―and Tim was scared, but he had to make an effort with Damian, if only for Bruce's sake. If only so Bruce wouldn't be forced to choose between them. If it ever came to that, Tim knew he would lose. Nobody picked Tim first out of a line-up. It was why he was so good at what he did, but sometimes he wished it didn't leave his scrambling for a foot in the door._

“ _Why are you acting like such a jerk?” he asked, perched at Damian's eye-level. The words he received were biting, indignant._

 _Damian was Bruce's blood son and he_ knew _that made a difference. Despite Damian's attitude, Bruce had brought him into his home, the manor. Tim had had to fight to earn a place here, to scratch one out for himself in the wake of Jason's death._

“ _Because you don't deserve_ any _of this,” he growled, scathingly. “You're_ adopted!” _The boy's voice turned sinister, it disturbed Tim greatly and he knew even before he moved that he was too late._

“ _But when you're gone,” Damian smiled, horrifyingly. “I'll take my rightful place at my father's side.”_

_The pointed brass knuckles came out of nowhere, aiming straight for Tim's domino but managing only to connect with his cheek. It was a small blessing, but painful nonetheless as the momentum of the punch knocked him off the side of the dinosaur and sent him careening toward the bottom of the cave._

“ _I'll inherit everything!” Damian yelled over the side after him, cackling._

“Tim…?”

The present came back into focus at a sickening speed.

“I'm sorry,” he apologised again. “What were you saying?”

Dinah looked overtly worried now. Tim internally chastised himself for putting the expression on her face. This wouldn't do. He needed to get a grip. _Heh._

“I just asked if you were alright,” she said slowly, watching his face calmly, but with keen eye. “You look rather pale. Do you need to lie down?”

Tim shook his head. As if he needed to pretend any further.

“No, thank you,” he replied, sharply, to which she flinched. Some gross part of him took it as a win, another larger part of himself just felt ashamed.

“Alright,” she acquiesced with the slightest incline of her head. “Let me know if you need anything though, won't you? Like water or such.”

Tim politely returned the gesture. “I will,” he answered easily, with all the grace of a Drake turned Wayne. “Thank you.”

Every question Dinah threw at him for the next hour he dodged neatly, deflecting with the skill and poise of Wonder Woman deflecting literal bullets. It wore him out. By the time the hour was up, Tim was exhausted and Dinah was struggling to maintain her composure. Tim suspected she was frustrated with him, but her affectation of calm was leagues above his own. She had more daily practice, he was sure. He only ever pulled his out when the vultures were descending.

Tim was surprised to see Batman waiting for him down the hall after the session was over. He had thought Bruce would have returned to the manor rather than wait for him.

Dinah led the way down the hall, her shoes clacking on the floor. Tim followed meekly behind.

“How was it?” he asked, Tim and Dinah coming to a stop before him.

Tim wasn't sure who Bruce was asking, but he was saved from answering when Dinah replied, “Might I have a word in private, Bruce?”

The deadly seriousness of her tone was as sharp as a razor blade. Tim knew she was as skilled with her words as she was with her voice, but he hadn't realised what she'd been holding back. A shudder ran down Tim's spine. Black Canary was a vicious opponent. It seemed he'd misjudged her. Next time, he would not underestimate her.

Bruce nodded and the pair of them disappeared back down the hall, Bruce throwing him a little worried look as he passed, which Tim wouldn't have noticed if he hadn't been carefully watching the man's face for hints of anger. If Jack Drake had ever been pulled aside by a therapist regarding Tim, the man would have been furious.

Tim had to remind himself that Bruce wasn't Jack. Bruce was different, dangerous in other ways.

* * *

The air in the car on the ride home went stale pretty quickly in the silence. It was more than obvious that Bruce wanted to say _something_ , but also clear he didn't quite know what. Where Tim would have once helped him out, offered an olive branch or something, he chose not to this time. This was what Bruce got for dragging him out to see a therapist. In a few hours he would make sure Bruce wasn't mad at him or, hopefully, tease out what it was Dinah had spoken to him about, but right now all he felt was tired and defeated. Exhaustion rolled over him in waves, he fought against their currents, only because a part of him refused to let down his guard. Sleeping was for people who didn't have to watch out for murder attempts on their life.

“Hard session?” Bruce said, finally cracking. He'd picked up on Tim's fatigue, then. There was a softness to his voice Tim didn't often hear, but weariness refused him rumination on the tone.

“Mm,” he hummed flatly in reply, blinking slowly and staring out the car window. The sun was setting over the horizon. Patrol would begin in a few hours. Tim would need a cup of coffee― _or several_ ―before going out tonight. The adrenaline of running the rooftops would eventually shake out the enervation from his bones, but right now the car seat was warm and the firm pressure of the seat was watching his back for him. Nothing here was going to hurt him. There was no Damian, no Jason, no Ra's. There were no Spiders or assassins or ninjas or well-meaning brothers who claimed nothing would change between them when, in fact, things already had.

“Will you… talk to me about it?” Bruce sounded small, afraid. Hesitant to ask.

Tim looked over, taking in the slight halo the setting sun cast around Bruce. It would've made a great photo, once. Now, it just made his heart-ache. There was so much wrong with Tim, it seemed that Bruce was beginning to work that out. He knew that wasn't a good thing. If he couldn't function as Red Robin he would be cast aside again. If Tim wasn't _needed_ he wasn't wanted. If Bruce took this as a reason― _an opportunity―_ to bench him, Tim couldn't be sure he wouldn't self-destruct.

“Exactly what do you want to talk about, B?” And there it was, the fight rising up in him again. A will to live. It was like hauling a steam-train up a hill, the weight of it on his already broken shoulders. The moment he gave up, he really would die. The current would pull him under and wash him away; a broken Robin. Only to be remembered in unvisited memorial halls and a modest grave.

Bruce worried his bottom lip. Uncharacteristic, for him. “Well, Dinah says you're… depressed.”

“Okay,” he said. And shrugged.

The man glanced over at him.

“She also thinks you have anxiety and that you've probably got PTSD.”

Tim shrugged again. “Guess it's a good thing I'm seeing a therapist then.” _This was the part where Bruce ripped Red Robin away from him, wasn't it? Not this time. This time, Tim was going to fight for it._

Out of his peripheral, he could see Bruce's deep frown.

“Tim,” he began, possibly as gently as he could manage. “I know you're going through a lot right now. I just… I want you to know I'm here for you. I'm with you, son, every step of the way.”

A small, childish part of him wanted to believe Bruce's words wholeheartedly. He felt ashamed at how jaded his heart had become. Instead, it was all he could do to not read deeply into those words. Tim could file them away for now, drag them out into the light when Bruce decided it was time to cut off loose threads and cast him off into the vast ocean.

“Thanks, Bruce,” he said instead, keeping his real thoughts to himself and pasting on an agreeable smile, something that would reassure Bruce that his trying and efforts were not wasted. “Thanks for being in my corner.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can we just quickly address that Tim has FAR too much trauma. So many comments pointed out little bits and pieces of Tim's past that I'd like, completely forgotten about? And then I remembered a few myself and was like, "Woah, this is too much trauma to cover in a three chapter work."

Dick was waiting for them when they arrived home. Maybe it was ridiculous, but Tim couldn't help feeling a little ambushed. Despite the smile, there was an invisible coat of nervousness around his older brother's shoulders. Tim couldn't be sure why, but it was making him nervous.

“How did it go?” He asked, doing the vocal impression of wringing his hands as Tim stepped over the threshold of the garage and into the kitchen, followed shortly by Bruce.

From where he was drying dishes by the sink, Alfred looked up and blinked expectantly.

“Fine,” he lied through a return smile of his own. His face was a mask made of porcelain, he refused to drop it and risk having it crack.

Bruce crossed over the entranceway and swiftly undermined Tim's previous statement with a grim, “… it, perhaps, could have gone better.”

Tim threw Bruce a scowl over his shoulder and wondered, not for the first time, what it was exactly that Dinah had said to him. He would simply have to add Dinah to his list of things to plan for each week. Tim would need a script, a way of appearing to get better fast. Because he wasn't going to appear non-functional. He wouldn't be cast aside, not again, _(please not again; he wasn't sure he'd make it through to the other side if he was pushed off another cliff, even if this one proverbial)._

Bruce's sighed words made him feel like an under-performing tool, something to be taken apart piece by piece. Dinah would find the rusty parts of him and rip them out, throw them away. It would be better for Bruce if she could get him functioning again. Together they would mould Tim back into his original shape. Twist him and bend him. Bright-eyed, eager to help. Desperate to please and be wanted even though he rarely received any want in return.

Alfred's keen eyes narrowed and Dick's face fell. Tim couldn't help but feel as though they were both disappointed in him, although, perhaps he was simply projecting.

It wasn't an entirely new or even unusual feeling. Tim had figured out that the stench of _failure_ was what wafted off of him pungently, stinking up any room he walked into―it must do, little else explained it. There was always _someone_ disappointed in him, disappointed by what he was and what he _wasn't_.

It had started with his parents, at first, even though he hadn't understood it as a child. Janet and Jack Drake were never around because he smelled up their house with incompetence and inadequacy. Jack Drake loathed him, up until he didn't. Up until he realised that, with the right moulding and some firm squeezing, Tim could be pressed into something new and useful. Tim had clung to the idea that his father really had wanted to reconcile their relationship, but it was hard to ignore the years of neglect, even through his desperate desire to please and be needed. In the end, right up until his death, Tim had allowed his father to wield him like a sword and use him like a tool. It seemed better than the alternative. Tim hadn't wanted to be forced back into the dark cupboard, unseen and unheard unless someone needed something from him.

Bruce had followed, but Tim was just a shadow of what Jason had been. There were a few happy years he could recall. The rational part of his brain looked at it and saw him for what he was, a marionette for Bruce to control like a puppeteer. And yet, that short, small part of his life was when he'd truly felt happiest. He'd even deluded himself into believing that he was wanted, that he was _loved._ Maybe he was, in the way one loved a childhood toy stored on a shelf. Perhaps Tim was just a part of Bruce's life that the man had left behind long ago. Retired to the bookshelf where he sat collecting dust until Bruce required him as either a tool or a crutch. Tim would rather be considered lonely and old than broken and of no value any more. _He didn't want to be thrown away, stitches broken, stuffing poking out_. Tim wasn't sure he would be able to survive it.

After Bruce, never more had he more keenly felt like a _replacement robin_ more than when Dick had so easily discarded him in favour of Damian, the blood son. The short, sweet days where Tim had once stood under sunshine, eeking out himself a place in the world were cut short with the brutality of a murderer's knife against his neck.

“Timmy~,” Dick whined sympathetically, pulling a face that Tim knew was all fake, yanking him back into the present from wherever it was he had drifted, like a puppy yanked along on a chain. It was all a charade, something to let Tim know he pitied him, but only in that way that was like one felt sympathy for a dog stuck out in a yard during a cold winter's day. There was nothing Dick would do about it, he would keep walking along, cold hands shoved in his pockets as he continued down the street of life and Tim was left chained behind.

“I'm sorry you're going through a rough time, bud,” Dick continued, scrunching up his face like he really meant it. The words were for a pet, an infant; condescending to Tim's ear. “Things'll get better, you'll see.”

Tim didn't _need_ things to get better, he just needed them not to get any worse. Better was never in the cards for Tim. Hope wasn't something he needed, pragmatism was.

“ _Stop treating me like I'm a fucking child, Dick,”_ he snapped out of nowhere, viciously, like twine stretched too thin until it snapped with a silent twang, just as Jason walked into the room and halted immediately by the door at the sound of it. Over by the sink, the plate Alfred had been drying slipped from his hands back into the soapy water.

“ _Like you think you know best,”_ Tim seethed, radiating anger and hurt hidden behind a curtain of fury, hackles raised. _“Like you ALWAYS think you know best!”_

A flash of hurt crossed Dick's face and settled there, pained. It leaked into the papercut lines in his expression, as though Tim had slapped him hard across the face, a sucker-punch with his palm.

Silence froze the room; the eye before the storm. Tim regretted the words immediately, if only because the porcelain mask he wore now lay on the floor, cracked beyond repair. This was Timothy Drake, ugliness laid bare before the family that didn't really want him anyway.

Everything happened at once.

“ _Master Tim!”_ Alfred rebuked him, spinning fast on his heel to face him just as Bruce's vice-like clamp came down on his shoulder, pinning him in place to the floor. Righteous fury chased shock across Jason's face and he moved to stand in front of Dick, as though he thought by doing so would protect their elder from the verbal whips and stinging barbs already dying on Tim's tongue.

Bruce's hand on his shoulder felt like the weight of the entire world. Though his knees trembled, Tim refused to buckle. Though his bones were cracked, he refused to show pain. Somehow, although he didn't know quite how he did it, Tim threw Bruce's hand off his shoulder and stepped away, backing up into the wall as several pairs of eyes―with emotions ranging from hurt to hostility―followed him there.

Damian's head popped into the room, likely lured in by the sound of Alfred's yell.

“That was unnecessary, Tim,” Bruce said, carefully keeping out the gravelly growl from his deep baritone. It was clear he was assessing Tim, trying to work out if he was salvageable in anyway. “Dick was just trying to―”

“I KNOW WHAT HE WAS TRYING TO DO!” Tim yelled at the floor, fists clenched by his sides, unable to look at the disappointment or hurt or anger in their eyes. The truth would linger in them and he couldn't bare it. The truth was that he wasn't wanted here. Tim's presence had started as a burden, but he'd morphed himself into something useful. He'd warped and changed parts of himself, did things for Batman, for Bruce's _cause_ because he cared for the man and the rest of the family. There was so much of himself he'd given to people only to have it thrown on the ground and trampled upon; a paper heart, carefully folded, only to be stomped on time and time again, left on the street and drowned in the puddles where the rain collected.

“I'm not―” Tim's hands ran through his hair, snagging loose ends, tugging at the rest. “―I'm not _broken!”_

Oh, what an utter lie that was. Tim knew it. They knew it. It was a plain falsehood, a poor attempt at plastering over a wall damaged beyond repair. The wall would need to be knocked down. Perhaps they would replace the wall, build a better wall in Tim's place while he wasted away in the rubble. Bruce would cut the last few of his strings, a marionette no more. They would cast Tim out, leave him to deal with his broken pieces on his own; trying to put himself back together like Humpty Dumpty forgotten by all the kings horses and all his men. All that PTSD and depression and whatever else Dinah claimed he had wouldn't matter anymore because they all saw now that Tim wasn't something they could fix.

Dick looked distressed as he made a move to step forward, arms outstretched like he wanted to scoop Tim up in a hug. Jason's arm, thrown out across his chest, stopped him.

“No one ever said you were, Timmy,” Dick's voice cracked.

“It's what you believe, though,” Tim heaved with a fractured whisper, fire raging against the exhaustion inside of him, dying. God, he'd been fighting for so long. Against both visible and invisible enemies, against those he couldn't trust and those he'd thought he could. He was defective, now. Split like old firewood. Best to cut out the tumour now, before it got any bigger.

Bruce's expression was splintering around the edges. Tim tried not to flinch when Bruce came over, arms wrapping around his torso, shielding him from the rest of the room. He was utterly unsuccessful, but glad at least that his flayed, empty chest was no longer visible to the entire world.

“Listen to me now, Tim,” Bruce murmured in his ear, a hand coming up to smooth down the hairs clinging to his scalp. “You are _not_ broken. No one believes that you are.”

A broken sob escaped past his lips as his shaking arms instinctively moved to encircle Bruce back. It had been so long since he was held like this.

“I'm just a replacement,” he admitted into the fabric of the man's shirt, aching so badly that he just wanted the poison out of his heart before it pained him any more. “I was just a stand-in for Jason and nothing more than a place-holder for Damian. _They_ knew it, it's why they tried to kill me. They knew Batman deserved better than me. You never wanted me here, but I forced my way in anyway because I thought I could help―I hubristically believed I could be _needed_ here. I know I can't be needed if I'm _broken_.”

The arms around him clung tighter, but Tim didn't know why.

“Don't you dare believe those things about my son,” Bruce whispered, hardly audible in his ear. “Don't you _dare_ say those things about my Tim,” he said, seeming to be quaking in silent rage. “He is _not_ a replacement or a stand-in or a place-holder. Timothy Drake came into my life and not for a single second have I regretted meeting him.”

The world condensed down to just the two of them. Tim cocooned, shielded from the violent storm.

“A lot of bad things have happened to my Tim, things he didn't deserve. There are many crimes of which I am guilty myself, many of which I have committed against him myself. Against my own son who I _know_ deserved better. Timothy Jackson Drake-Wayne is _so_ good. Tim is a brilliant, beautiful blessing. Those who aspire to do good in the world look up to him, I know I do so, every single day. Tim has saved me, both from outside forces and from myself repeatedly. It seems I have done a pretty pathetic job of telling him just how much that means to me, how much _he_ means to me. He is smart and loving and kind. He looks for the good in people, but never shies away from the hard truths. I don't deserve someone as wonderful as him and I know I will never stop marvelling at the fact that he is, somehow, my son. My beautiful, wonderful son.”

When Bruce started to pull away, Tim tried to allow his fingers to relax, but all it managed to do was unseal the tightness from within his throat. Gulping, bursting sobs broke forth, an ululating sound that tore through the room. It popped the bubble in which the two of them had inhabited. The presence of the other occupants in the room filtered in slowly, but Tim found it hard to care when he was still protected by both the wall behind him and Bruce before him.

“You are so loved, Tim,” Bruce said, sounding heart-broken. “I have no words with which I can apologise for not telling you every single day of your life that you are. You deserve the world, my wonderful, kind-hearted Timothy. You have been wronged so often. I cannot change the past, but I can try my damnedest to make sure the future only holds goodness for you. You are _not_ broken, Tim. You are hurting. And, if need be, I will spend every single one of the rest of my days trying to take away that pain from inside your chest.”

In the end, three little words were all it took. Three little words; like a freight-train heading for him at full speed. For the first time in forever, Tim felt as though he was dismantling something inside himself, a wall he'd built to keep his hurt contained.

“I love you,” Bruce said, plain and simple, but filled to the brim with unrestrained emotion.

It didn't fix anything, it didn't change anything, not really. Tim still ached like a knife was buried in his neck, but the tiniest amount of weight lifted from his chest. It was a burden he'd carried with him for so long that he'd forgotten it was there at all. Somehow, it made all the difference.

It was stupid, really. That Bruce still had this much sway over him. That the whole family was there to see it. But maybe, though for now he saw in a mirror, darkly, one day he would see what Bruce saw, face to face.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I would consider this off-brand for me, because I'm all about the sparkly, happy endings. Things ended a bit more bittersweet this time, I think.
> 
> I have an Bat Family-centric discord now for Batfans 18+ and I would love to see you there! Link: https://discord.gg/884WbcR

**Author's Note:**

> Please leave a comment or kudos if you liked this work! Also, if you want to make a new friend, come chat with me at [Tumblr](https://selkienight60.tumblr.com/).


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